Mum must’ve felt guilty about taking out her fight with Larrie on me because on the drive to work the next morning she suggested we go out after school on Wednesday.
“We could try the new Spanish cafe near Parkville Metro,” she said. “I hear they make excellent churros con chocolate.”
Mum knew how to win me over: Spanish donuts dipped in creamy, melted milk chocolate. I took it as a good omen that, less than twenty-four hours since Larrie finished school, things were already improving for me.
Jay and Dylan were rearranging the display in the chiller cabinet when I arrived. I tipped my head for Jay to inspect my spotlessly clean hair.
“Your boyfriend was outside earlier,” said Dylan, handing me a clean apron.
“I’ve told you before, Simon’s not my boyfriend.”
“Not Simon. The other one – the blond.”
“From last night?”
Dylan nodded, but I didn’t get to quiz him any more about Josh because customers started arriving as soon as Jay flipped the sign on the door to “Open”.
Mrs Ng was first through the door. She asked me to help her choose a selection for a cheese platter. “Nothing too strong!” she ordered.
I went to the corner of the chiller cabinet Jay refers to as “Bland Land” and selected three differently textured but equally tasteless specimens for her to sample, each of which she declared “delicious”.
After Mrs Ng, I got stuck serving Mr Reymond, who thinks being French makes him a cheese expert. He always demands to taste every new cheese we have, and criticises all of them except the French ones. Then he buys the thinnest sliver of whichever is the ripest, stinkiest washed rind in stock.
“Time waster,” I muttered when Mr Reymond left with two dollars’ worth of Reblochon.
Jay overheard me. “I’ll take ten of him over twenty customers who won’t taste anything outside Bland Land. We cheese lovers have to stick together, you know.”
Things quietened down in the afternoon and Dylan suggested that he and Jay go for a late lunch while I minded the shop. Without many customers to serve, I soon had the shelves restocked and displays tidied, so I pulled the ancient laptop Jay used for online banking from under the prep bench and logged on to Facebook, keeping an eye on the door in the mirror in case any customers came in.
As usual, all Facebook did was confirm that everyone else’s lives were more interesting than mine. According to their updates, in the twenty-odd hours since school finished:
Prad Chandarama hopes the pain of getting his eyebrow pierced was worth it.
Lily Ng needs to sleep till Monday – thanks for a fun night, girls!!
Tracy Green thinks guys with eyebrow piercings are HOT!!!
Nicko Nickson thinks Maz Dekker has mad skillz (happy now, Maz?).
Simon Lutz is alphabetising his record collection.
Long live vinyl!
Okay, so I wasn’t as much of a loser as Simon, but you get the picture. I was about to log off in a huff when I got a new friend invitation. I almost squealed when I saw it was from Josh Turner, clicking “Accept” immediately in case he changed his mind. I’d just clicked on his profile to check his pertinent details (star sign, relationship status – all the crucial facts) when I spotted Jay and Dylan approaching. I stowed the laptop back on the shelf as the door opened.
While I busied myself re-tidying shelves under Jay’s watchful gaze, my mind raced. Could Dylan have been right about Josh liking me? Or was Josh trying to make himself appear popular by friending anyone he’d ever met?
I texted Maz to ask her opinion.
She phoned less than ten minutes later. “According to his profile he’s single and looking.”
“Thank you, Mata Hari.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted to know?”
“Just because he’s looking doesn’t mean he’s looking for me. I bet he’s got loads of Facebook friends.”
“One hundred and ninety-three,” confirmed Maz. “But you’re the only one in Year Ten.”
I was about to tell her that I didn’t want to get my hopes up when Jay caught my eye in the mirror. I swear Mum’s given him lessons in how to make me feel guilty.
“Gotta go,” I said, grabbing the broom.
“See you at Prad’s for rehearsal tonight. Don’t be late!”
Prad greeted me at the door, tilting his head so I could admire the silver barbell running through the outer edge of his left eyebrow.
“Pretty cool, eh? I had to forge Mum’s signature on the consent form to get it.”
“Great,” I said, trying not to inspect the red, swollen piercing too closely. “But what’s she going to say when she sees it?”
“Meh. I’ll deal with that when it happens.”
I took my shoes off before entering the house, which had recently been carpeted in a pale green shagpile. Prad led me to the soundproof basement studio his dad installed when it became obvious that Prad’s dreams of a career in music weren’t going away. The insulation made the room feel very still and airless. (Not a good thing when Prad had his shoes off.) I was the last to arrive, as usual.
“The first thing we need to do is decide which two songs we’re going to play at the tryouts next week,” said Maz. “My vote’s for ‘Queen Bee’ and ‘You Don’t Know’.”
“Too safe,” said Prad. “I reckon we should do ‘Burn it Down’ and ‘Kick Me in the Guts’.”
“‘Burn it Down’ could go over well if there are a lot of guys in the audience,” agreed Nicko.
Maz shook her head. “We are not doing the song about burning down the school. At least not at the tryouts. The point of this set is to get the judges – who, may I remind you, are all teachers or student council reps – to choose Vertigo Pony for the final competition. Safe is good.”
“Why don’t we let Al choose?” suggested Simon. “At least she’ll be objective, since she didn’t write any of the songs.”
Prad and Nicko agreed warily. I could tell Maz was annoyed that they hadn’t gone with her suggestions.
“Fine,” she sighed. “But remember, Al, you’re choosing the songs that will most appeal to the judges, not necessarily the ones you like best. To keep things fair, we won’t tell you the titles, you can number them in the order they’re played. That way you won’t know which songs we each voted for.”
It was a good idea in theory, but unfortunately for Maz it was disproved the moment Prad got to the first chorus (“You kick me in the guts/You kick me in the guts”, etc.). In the end two songs really stood out: a pop-sounding tune with very dark lyrics, and a down-beat love song that started off sad and ended on a hopeful note.
“Song two and song six,” I said when Maz asked for my verdict.
Maz checked the playlist. “‘Lock Up the Sell Out’ and ‘You Don’t Know’. At least one of my choices got in there.”
Prad wasn’t convinced. “I’m not sure about the soppy one–”
Maz cut him off. “The jury has spoken!”
Maz made the guys run through the songs I’d chosen a few more times. I had to concede that they were really starting to come together as a group. Prad and Nicko had been writing songs and jamming together for years and were completely at home performing, and Maz was in her element, dancing and playing her keyboard, as well as singing backup vocals. Even Simon almost managed to look cool behind his drum kit, helped a lot by the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt revealing some unexpectedly well-developed biceps. For a moment I was quite distracted. Unfortunately, it was the exact moment Maz turned my way.
I whipped my head in the other direction and tried to appear equally interested in the foam insulation that covered the studio’s walls, but Maz called a break and was by my side faster than you could say “sprung”.
“See something you like?” she asked in a whisper loud enough for me to worry about the guys hearing her.
I rolled my eyes at the suggestion. “No offence to your ginger ninja over there, but I’ve only got eyes for Josh.”
“Hmmm, if you like your guys straight out of a World of Preppies catalogue, he’s all right.”
“Josh is more than a pretty face; he’s also an excellent soccer player.”
“So he’s pretty and he’s a jock …”
“And he has a great smile, and he’s charming, and he–”
“Okay, you win! But you have to admit, musicians are sexier than athletes.” She glanced in Nicko’s direction.
“Especially bass players?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
After rehearsal wrapped up, Maz’s mum gave me a lift home. Neither of us said anything more about Josh or Nicko, but I could tell from Maz’s moony expression that she was falling hard.
I checked Facebook the moment I got to my room and no less than twenty more times before leaving for school on Monday morning, but there were no messages from Josh. (I also pored over every photo in his online albums, every comment written on his wall and every status update he’d made in the past month, but that’s a story to save for the Stalkers Anonymous meeting.)
Al Miller is a little bit hopeful.